Reaction
by solinaK
Summary: House and his issues a.k.a. House gets drunk, Wilson wants to know why. Last chapter 20 dec.
1. First night

_Category:_ Angst  
_Summary:_ House and his issues.  
_Warning: _The word fuck is used extensively  
_Disclaimer:_ The characters and the show belong to the writers and creators of House MD. I don't get any profit from this. I just like to play around with the characters. And I'm bored.

* * *

"_Just face it, buddy boy. There are two kinds of people in the world. There's you and there's everybody else. And never the twain shall meet."_  
_ Six Feet Under_

And even now, the rain striping the windows, slash slash slash, he could feel like he was nine all over again. Sitting on his chair in the office, clasping a ball in his hands, swivelling the chair around. Dark already. Never could hold still. Just another summer storm wetting eyes and hands and cold floors.

It was pelting by the time he reached his apartment, the four last steps somehow very familiar, thud thud thud. Eyes seemed clouded, hands barely still, hurt hurt hurt. Sit on the couch and pills and alcohol and nothinging at the TV. Life sucked, sure. Nothing wrong with that. Nothing right with that.

Until.

Slightly drunk by the time I reach the door. It's him. I consider slamming the door to his face, for _he_ has that stance of _I think we (meaning I) need to actually have a talk_ and I'm not feeling uncharacteristically chatty about underlying issues and comforting phrases and little kittens and puppies and sunshine and rain rain rain. He takes my hesitation as an invitation and he's inside my territory and out of my crippled reach before I find the strength to push him out of my space. He's not gonna get anything. I'm a wall. I'm China's fucking Great Wall. Impenetrable. Fuck, I'm more than slightly drunk. And he has been talking all this time while I have conducted an inner monologue of sorts. Fuck. Whatever.

Painful movement and the couch. He has rolled his sleeves and has that annoying look on his face, pouring through every substance known to man; he is a Human Caring Factory. I am a Wall. Fucking China's Great fucking Wall. I let him know this by tapping the floor unevenly with my shaking hands, barely containing my frustration for him and that annoying I purse my lips.

Something here, something there.

"You're not -­­­­ you're just gonna sit there and ignore me?" Wilson has folded his hands across his chest and he already looks defensive, with his eyebrows raised and fuck.

My eyes stretch over the floor. Floor, floor, floor. I open my mouth to provide an answer of sorts, hopefully short and simple since I'm throbbing, but I can never tell what gets me going once I open my mouth.

"Yep." Simple. Unhelping. Perfect.

His hands come free, flailing in directions.

"You, you just, you-" he doesn't seem to find the right words. I'm that bad. "You-you don't really think you have anything to-"

"-No."

He is extremely frustrated. It would be so much more entertaining if I wasn't a Human Pain Factory. Pill, pill, pill.

"So – _so _- the fact that you couldn't figure it out this time doesn't get to you in the slight-"

"-No." I'm getting annoyed. I'm getting annoyed at not being drunk enough to not to get up and open the door in the first place. I'm annoyed. Fuck.

"So you haven't been trying to ignore me –"

"Oh, come on! You're just trying to come up with something to distract yourself while you're having your annual realisation of your perfect life being _just_ as fucked up as everyone else's and every time that happens, you feel the need to go all Caring and Feeling on me. I haven't gone that bald yet. Shut up."

He doesn't get it. He doesn't get it and he's already unclamping his mouth.

"Shut up!"

He sighs, resigned, fidgets in his characteristic way and tries one last time.

"This-whatever it is, it's-it's affecting you and your work." His voice rises in pitch. "And you-_you_ can't just ignore it!"

I take a reasonable gulp of toxifying liquid, raise my eyebrows. "Watch me."

He left. I'm not thinking. I lean back on the couch, listen to the pain humming humming then bang then whirring I'm drunk and I could make him leave I'm drunk so fucking drunk drunk drunk.


	2. Second day

I wake up and I'm thinking three fucks. My fuckleg, my fuckhead and my fuckmorning. Fuck fuck fuck. Passed out on the couch. Not thinking. Just passed out. Breathing. I concentrate on it. I'm thinking it's important. Yesterday sucked and I can taste it. It's still raining and it doesn't make me feel any better. I'm thinking wet grass and hard floors and.

I consider trying to remember how I ended up in this cramped position, wanting to throw up something that I had apparently consumed in large amounts, but decide it's not really worth the effort.

Four hours and eighteen Cuddy-phone calls later I am badgered back to work, walking at my strange crippled hung over angle. I gather the energy I have reserved for glaring at people and go to hunch over on my office chair. Sigh sigh sigh. No cases today. No dying today. No dying is nice.

Cameron sees me and my hung over hunchedness and is getting to her feet with a threatening blue folder in her hands, but I glare effectively at her and she decides to not to want to deal with me right now and goes to make coffee instead. Good. Even I don't feel like dealing with myself today.

God. The fifth pill goes down with less effort than the last two. God. I'm tired. Tired tired tired tired tired. God. God. God. I must look very pathetic right now. I am forty years past caring. I snigger slightly. Going mad. It's very possible that I'm still drunk.

Wilson walks past my office twice. Walks in on the third time. I roll my eyes. I'm thinking he's thinking I have a problem. I'm thinking it's bad to be drunk at work.

I must have exchanged significantly unhelpful comments with him last night. In between the alcohol, I presume, because he's on the edge and all I've done by now is hunch pathetically on my chair and squint.

And he's persistent. Persistence, Perspiration, Perks, Pill. Pill pill pill.

"Just how long are you gonna keep doing this?" He's already sitting. This is strike two, I presume. I snigger very slightly.

"I don't know. Just how long are _you_ gonna keep doing this?" I'm sniggering a bit more.

"Are you _drunk?_"

"I don't know. Am I?" More sniggering.

I get a sigh out of him for being annoying and dim and childish and insensitive and emotionally not-there and still drunk.

"You're drunk? At work? Drunk? House, I get it that you're – you're upset because you lost a patient, but – but drunk, _at work?_" He gets very agitated and sort of does this little nervous stance. And then the sigh and hand gesturing.

"Something – _something… _is clearly very wrong -"

I'm thinking he clearly doesn't need to administer anaesthesia during any procedures. He bores me and he unnerves me with prodding prodding and I must be clenching, actually clenching, I can feel myself clenching.

The slight raising of eyebrows, round eyes and… "Right." That effectively stops him. Also my getting up and grabbing my things has probably something to do with it, but you never know.

"House-"

"Very – _very _– bad to be drunk at work, you know."

He probably realized that he'd picked the wrong subject to prod around, however delicately. Fuck him for being so fucking. I'm going home. I'm still drunk.


	3. Third night

"I can't believe you!" 

I called in sick today. And I can't believe that at some point in my life I have actually given him the key to my apartment. Actually, voluntarily, given him the key. I must've been even more stoned than usual.

"Well, what have I supposedly done this time?"

"I got a phone call this evening. So… it turns out this same person phoned you two days ago. The two days that you have been avoiding me. Drunk out of your head. At work."

Where did I put the Scotch? It must be in here somewhere. Oh, and Wilson? He can just fuck off. My eyes are stinging stinging and I must feel very tired. I rub my face with my hands and he takes a deep breath like trying to calm himself and I'm feeling stinging stinging.

"So I try to get you to actually _talk_ to me for once, for just this once and-"

"Get out."

My words are gruff gruffness with no real purpose.

Extended silence.

"So this is how you want to pay tribute to her memory? Go home, disconnect phone, get stoned, get drunk, rinse and repeat?"

"Get out."

"I'm not fucking going anywhere! She's _dead_, d'you get it, d'you – do you even care? He _called me _because he couldn't get hold of you, didn't even know if you'd gotten his message, didn't even know if you _knew that your own mother had died!_"

He seems to have exerted all his resources, heaving slightly, cheeks pink. I can still hear his words and it's like something has broken somehow somewhere at this moment break broke broken like old bones going snap underfoot and I crash my cane on the coffee table, its intestines spilling out filling the floor and I'm shouting shouting shouting-

"Do I fucking care? Have you even considered for a fucking, fucking moment that maybe, maybe I had a reason, maybe it's-"

"What reason? Why didn't you call him back? You're not even going to attend the funeral, are you?"

Okay. Okay. Okay.

Okay. I sit down, resting my head on my cane and possibly feeling nothing at all. I don't even feel angry anymore for his accusations, all the lying now it's just weariness and something empty somewhere, drained used dried up.

"I can't."

And it's that simple. I simply can't. He sits next to me, sighs, rubs his eyes. I look away.

"Okay."

* * *

We've been sitting here for quite some time and. I fumble for my pills and my hands are slightly shaking just shaking and I can tell that he notices. I'm gonna give it a while and then I'm gonna get up. I'm gonna give it a while and then I'm gonna get up. I'm gonna give it a while – 

He sighs loudly, his breath twisting in this tense clenched silence.

"It's… It's because of your father, isn't it?"

He sighs again. He's being fucking melodramatic about this.

"Don't be so fucking melodramatic about this."

Eyebrows are raised and he brings a hand to his eyes, rubs them slightly. I study the handle of my cane. My hands are still shaking shaking.

"I'm just saying… even if you can't see your father... this is about saying goodbye to your mother. This isn't about him."

My mouth settles in a thin line and I clench my jaw, my hands still shaking. I take a steadying breath. I really need to get out of this place. I need to get out of here. Need need need need.

I need him to get out of here.

"Look – the funeral's on Sunday, 11 AM. This is the address."

He hands me a scribbled note. I don't take it.

He leaves and I'm still staring at the note left on the coffee table.


	4. After Sunday

My body is almost nodding off, hands and legs heavy, hanging loosely, eyelids almost sealing together. It's windy outside, rain striping the windows with small droplets spilling and spilling back and forth and I wipe my cheeks, hands heavy heavy heavy. 

He's still watching me, waiting for me to say something insightful, significant, possibly life altering. He's agitated, has gotten enough of me and my infuriating ways, my avoidance and stubbornness. I am unapproachable.

"Well?"

"It's fine."

"Doesn't seem like it's fine."

"It's fine."

"Talk to me."

"It's fine."

He throws up his hands, clearly frustrated. I'm driving him slightly crazy, he looks like he might snap any time. I take a deep breath, trying to steady it, keep it steady. Purse my aching eyes closed as he stares at me passive-aggressively. My heart is thudding away from me.

"You know what? I'm starting to tire of this. Sure, you don't have to talk to me, but you don't need to lie either! I don't get why you have to be so stubborn all the time! And I'm not gonna keep coming back indefinitely. Something went wrong. Spill."

I take calming breaths.

"Didn't go so well."

I can feel my heart thudding too loudly in my ears, unevenly in my chest, thud thud thud, washing away my ears my eyes squinting, I take a breath but it gets caught up, thud thud thud thud, reaching my throat, constricting, pounding reaching touching like my heart's going to cave in. My palms sweaty shaking inside out as I lean my head on them, spilling breath after breath, hands and head tingling, the world falling and rising in, heat pushing sweat up pulse speeding heart giving in and waves of dizziness, my breaths jumping on me, I'm out of control, thoughts racing, eyes shaking shaking, slipping away bees inside my head filling with thudding thudding thudding.

"Take calm breaths. It's okay."

I settle my hands on my lap, lean my head back, willing to calm myself down. It's all okay. It's okay.

"Just take deep breaths. It's okay."

It takes a while, but I am there. I close my eyes, still feeling a little light-headed and out of breath and I know he's going to say something.

"Yeah, I know. Panic attack."

"Have you had one before?"

"No."

I sigh again, running my hand down my bruised jaw. I'm so tired.

"You feeling okay?"

"Mmh. Sleepy."

Closing my eyes, I can feel his weight settle next to me on the couch.

"He do that to you? Your jaw?"

I squint my eyes. I feel exhausted.

"Mmh."

I nod off.

* * *

I lay and think about being close to someone. Something funny inside my throat, sliding down my chest, weighing down down like oxygen burning. Nauseous. 

"You drugged me." Nauseous. Drunk birds have settled on my knees, chirping sluggishly. Huh. Weird.

"I gave you some Valium to calm you down. Wait-you don't remember waking up?" His eyebrows face downwards. Confusion. I can do that too. I taste my mouth. Mmm.

"You gave me enough Valium to knock out a whole building full of… something." I scrunch up my face. That doesn't seem right.

"Ungh."

"You, you want me to get you something?"

"Besides anti-Valium? Because drugging up your best friend is okay as long as said friend is not as scarily scary as I am."

"Right. And you should know all about that."

"I can lift three-storey buildings, you know."

His lips actually lift slightly at the corners. My eyes are drifting. Soft voices now.

"Maybe I shouldn't hate him."

"Why not?"

"He was upset. I've never been easy."

"Doesn't make it right."

"Right? Maybe not. But it makes it acceptable."

"Right. It's perfectly okay for your dad to hit you if he's upset. Very reasonable. You don't have to make excuses for him, House."

"But maybe I do."

He sighs. And then nothing.


	5. Two weeks

Small particles of dust are attaching themselves on the piano. I can almost imagine them swirling in the air, revolving around empty space before they reach the cool surface, their dustfingers touching. You play beautifully, dear.

"Are you even listening to me?"

I incline my head forwards. Considering the ceiling with mocking thoughtfulness, I come to the conclusion that honesty is the best way to go in this situation.

"Nope."

She sighs.

"You haven't been able to lug your ass into this building for the last two days. You have a new case. You owe me clinic hours. Give that back."

She grabs the ugly ornament from my hands and sets it back on her table. I stare at it.

"Next time you feel the need to get high for a few days, find a new job."

"You firing me? And besides, it was Wednesday. Wednesdays I get drunk and feel up my male friends. Tuesdays, on the other hand-"

"Go. Heal her. You have double clinic duty today."

She immerses herself with the important papers littering her desk. I have been dismissed.

They are waiting for me.

"The patient is a twenty-five year old woman-"

"Jesus, let me have coffee first."

"She has a history of-"

"Gimme the file."

I flip through the first few pages. Pfft.

"Knock yourselves out."

I turn to leave. _You have a case._ Yeah right, Cuddy.

"You know what she has?"

"And you don't?"

They all stare at me.

"Your CVs looked better than that. So poke the patient a bit. Knock yourselves out."

I turn again. The movement is grating my leg. Everything is grating my leg.

* * *

I know that I'm staring. The dustfingers are covering its hard surface now. Snowy September. I get a bit drunk. This seems to be the recurring pattern. I slip Scotch down my throat and watch the dust settle. _You play beautifully, dear._ I roll the pills in my hands. Roll roll roll. _You play beautifullybeautifullybeautifully, dear. _I toast for good health and let them roll all the way down my throat. Maybe I should do this the right way. Maybe I should have some Compazine. Maybe people should stop knocking on my door. _You play beautifully, dear._ I won't call anyone this time. 

He has materialised out of nothing. I search for the bottom of my drink the wrong way. Have I escalated into hallucinations already?

"Hey."

My hallucinations speak. I concentrate on the way the light of the street lamps filters through the windows, the yellow sour light. A bad substitute for a big hot bulging mass of hydrogen and helium.

We're sitting on the couch. It's all we ever do. And he's squinting down at me.

"You're pupils are pin-point."

His eyes bulge frantically. Oh, the joy.

"How many did you take? House? House?"

He's searching for the pill bottle. Finds it. Still half-full, no worries happy campers happy happy happy people.

"Jesus."

He lets out some air. I'm thinking this is when he's gonna leave.

"I'm gonna monitor you for the night. You have to, you have to talk to someone. It doesn't have to be me, just… just anyone. Or I'll tell Cuddy."

I raise my eyebrows. This for a few extra pills? Pin-point pupils?

"Don't have to talk to anyone."

"Don't give me that shit." He's taking my pulse now, looking very harassed. "Just, just don't give me that shit right now."

"What shit would you prefer then?"

"Would you have kept on taking them if I hadn't showed up?"

I guess saying nothing sometimes does point people to the affirmative.

"Jesus."

"That's our Jesus that you're using as an expletive."

"You really wanna die? You, you honestly just-"

His hands are shaking so badly I doubt he's doing much at finding my pulse. I shrug away awkwardly. Christmas was so much better. I chuckle drunkenly.

"Hey, hey, it's like Christmas came early."

I chuckle a bit more and try to shrug away his fingers for he's pressing down with too much force. He's probably gonna leave in a while, he has that look. His hands find his face and by the time I realise that his shoulders are shaking I'm once again back at staring at the dusty piano.

"I'm gonna lose you, aren't I."

The fact that he says it as a statement rather than a question says it all.


	6. Third week

"Hey, uuh… you have a second?"

"What is it? No, wait, don't tell me. I don't want to know what he's been up to this time."

I sigh and my hands find the back of the chair, clinging to it. I want to do this standing up; it won't feel as much as betrayal.

"I need… your help."

She sets her pen down and stares up at me.

"It's about House."

I sit down.

"He… uuh… he's not doing so great."

"What happened?"

"He's been taking increasing amounts of Vicodin _and_ alcohol… and one night I walked in on him and he was close to overdosing. Would have overdosed if I hadn't…"

"God."

"And, and he's not listening to me. I've been trying to make him get help but… "

We sit in silence for a while.

"It all started to get really bad when his mother died."

Her eyebrows rise slightly.

"I… didn't know that."

"Yeah well… I only found out by coincidence." I laugh a bit. Nervous laugh. "I, I have no idea what I should do."

"I could talk to him. Make him see a therapist."

"I don't know if that'll work. He doesn't exactly respond to pressure that well."

She just smiles wryly.

* * *

"Nope." 

I'm fiddling with a rubber ball, trying to tone her out.

"Not… gonna happen."

"House…"

Usually, I wouldn't take very well into Wilson's little schemery but right now I don't actually care. So he went through with what he threatened to do. He must be feeling very big right now. Big deal.

"I heard about your mother. I'm sorry."

"I'm sure her rotting body will appreciate it."

"What did she die of?"

"Heart attack."

"I'm sorry."

She just loves saying that.

"But you have to get help. House, you can't go on like this."

I am actually quite aware of that.

* * *

I may be the only employee who can exchange their mandatory time in the clinic for an appointment scheduled for talking about feelings. 

"So… Dr. House. You have been having a bit of a rough time."

He has a very ugly tie. I can't stop staring at it, the red shapes hypnotizing. When I tilt my head to the side it looks a little bit like a bloody embryo.

"Your mother passed away recently."

"Yeah."

Maybe if there was less green in it. Or a dash of blue to set off the orange stripes, make them flare out, react. Complementary colours. Action, counteraction. Reaction.

"Her chest pain was misdiagnosed as muscle strain and she was sent home. She died later of a heart attack."

If he's here to just read facts off a piece of paper, I might be coming by more often. Just so that I won't ever forget.

* * *

I'm fiddling with my pills and he's standing at the door of my office. I roll my eyes. I roll my pills. 

"Hey… so how did it go?"

"Great. I feel so much better now, thanks."

"Is, is it really helping?"

"Yeah. It's like swallowing rainbows. Makes my feet happy."

He looks like he's about to say something, but can't quite get it out.

"You did what you thought was right."

He nods.

"I'll see you later tonight, okay?"

"Yeah. Sure."

Later I'm staring and there's something sore inside my chest, lodged in between my ribs, aching closing in painfully. Something wet on my cheeks before I have a chance to react. Slipping slipping slipping slipping. My throat closing in on me, almost breathing.

**Day One**

The locksmith has just left and I stare at the new key, at a loss with what I should do with it. My cleaning lady already has the other pair. She's coming around tomorrow.

I place the key on top of the locked piano and my hands are almost almost clenching when I think about the black and white keys the metal strings hidden inside. If you can't see something it doesn't mean that it doesn't exist.

My eyes slip over the piece of paper but I've never had words. Taking two vials with me I lock the bathroom door, staring at the eyes staring back at me.

And when I do figure out what I want to tell him, my hand feels too heavy to lift.

_nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands  
E. E. Cummings_

* * *

**A/N:**

Yes, I know. I killed off my favourite character. I guess I knew right from the beginning that he wouldn't be able to get rid of his guilt and grief and his past issues and wouldn't be able to find anything to hold on to, despite some people's efforts. So, you know, happy holidays.

I started this story about a half a year ago, after having watched House a lot and read fanfiction... a lot. I will be editing this and posting it to my livejournal in a while. Thanks to all who have contributed to this story, especially everyone who has commented! I may write another story when I'm feeling like writing again.

Lenneth - Thank you very much :)

C Elise - Umm well, he didn't. Sorries!

blackmare - That's really nice to know since I was writing this with the help of my dictionary! Thank you so much for your words.

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